


Louder Than Words

by unfolded73



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Quiet Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-27
Updated: 2010-10-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21807355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfolded73/pseuds/unfolded73
Summary: A quick stop back at Jackie's turns into much more when the Doctor and Rose confront some recent unresolved tension. Coauthored with fid_gin. Beta'd by j_philly_b.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Kudos: 32





	Louder Than Words

**Author's Note:**

> Notes when originally published Oct. 2010: For kscribbles and everyone else who seems to be rocking the furtive-sex-at-Jackie's kink lately (we know we have been!). This falls sometime late in S2, exactly when we leave up to your imagination, dear reader.
> 
> Notes now: Almost done archiving every fic I've ever written! yay?

Rose closed the door to her bedroom and leaned against it, breathing a sigh of relief. She could still hear the drone of the television, and over that the Doctor’s voice chattering away at her mother. Just a quick pit-stop, she’d said, to pick up a few things. In truth, she’d asked to come home in the hopes that it would allow her to relax a little. Lately, even in the vastness of the TARDIS, she found it impossible to escape the keyed-up tension she felt while in the Doctor’s presence.

She turned her rucksack upside down, emptying the contents onto the floor of her bedroom. Balled-up, hopelessly wrinkled clothes fell out, and she made a face at the offending pile. Turning to her closet and opening it, Rose hoped to see something better on the hangers. As if there were some perfect jumper or pair of trousers that would transform her into a different person – into a woman that the Doctor would want. She sighed. If there were such an item of clothing, she certainly didn’t own it.

She knew that she wasn’t being completely fair in that assessment, that on some level the Doctor _did_ want her, he would just never do anything about it. A week ago – or maybe two, time passed strangely in the TARDIS – high off of another day saved by the two of them, another life spared because of their quick thinking, and also high off of how gorgeous he had looked when he’d beamed at her, so full of pride, she had kissed him. Rose had kissed the Doctor, on the mouth, and not in any innocent or friendly way. She had thought for a moment he’d started to respond, his lips had been soft and just slightly warm, and they had moved against hers for one blissful second before his entire body had seemed to freeze and he’d pulled back in shock. “I can’t,” he’d said, as if that explained everything, but she rather thought he could, and that he wanted to. She had felt it in the brief press of his lips, in the way he’d almost reached for her, and in the way he had seemed almost afraid to touch her ever since. He could, but he wouldn’t.

On cue, the Doctor opened the door to her bedroom and slipped inside, closing it again with a careful click.

“What did you do?” Rose asked, willing her heart to stop beating so fast at the sight of the Doctor appearing so quickly on the heels of her memories of his mouth against hers.

“What makes you assume I did anything?” he said, his voice pitched high to register his indignation. “I was only pointing out that the proportions of that shop are physically impossible without some sort of dimension modification matrix, or—”

“You were talking during Corrie? You can’t talk to Mum during Corrie.”

“Well I know that _now_. Blimey, you try to be helpful...” the Doctor answered, shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other where he stood, still just inside the door. Rose retrieved an armful of clothing from a drawer and knelt on the floor to continue packing, acutely aware that they hadn’t really had a quiet moment alone together since the kissing incident. “So,” he said after several moments of uncharacteristic silence.

“So,” Rose repeated back without turning to face him. She guessed that he was probably anxiously tugging at his ear or rubbing the back of his neck, and had this confirmed when she stole a glance over her shoulder. “Sit down or something, you’re making me nervous.”

“Right, sorry,” he said, sounding profoundly grateful that she hadn’t kicked him out and sent him back out to face Jackie. He flopped onto her bed, trainers and all, feet crossed at the ankle and hands folded across his stomach.

Tension hung in the room as she continued to slowly fold extra clothes and shove them into her rucksack. She could _feel_ him back there, watching her, could almost hear his brain working as he considered probably a thousand different topics of conversation or lines of inane, happy chatter and presumably found them all wanting. What was she going to do once she’d finished packing, she wondered? Breeze past him and back out into the flat, leaving him in here alone on her bed? That seemed cruel, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand this heavy silence. And under that silence, the question which she had not asked the day she’d kissed him and he’d rejected her: why? Why couldn’t he? When the hand-holding and hugging and cuddling and long looks had gone on just a little too long, why wouldn’t he take the next step with her?

“So, any thoughts as to where to next?” she asked, struggling to find a way to re-establish their normally easy banter and feeling foolish for having to do so with the Doctor, of all people.

He hummed thoughtfully from the bed. “Well...picnic in the UDFy-38135539 galactic wildlife preserve? The roaring twenties? The pollen storms of Sporangia 7, hold on, no, you’ve got that sneezing thing.” His voice was light, but with none of his usual enthusiasm behind it, and he trailed off as though he weren’t actually paying attention to what he was saying.

“Pollen storms?” she prompted, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Mmm,” he replied.

“Who’d want to go to a pollen storm?” she asked, turning briefly to catch him glance away from her, up at the ceiling as if to ponder her question.

“Ah, palynologists? Very large bees?”

“Why’re you so quiet?”

His eyes rolled back down to meet hers. “What?”

“You’re being quiet,” she repeated, brushing her hair back from her face to have something to do with her hands. “You came in and sat down and you’re just sitting there. It’s creepy.”

“I’m only in here because your mother banished me!” he protested. “And I’m sitting because you told me to.” They regarded each other for a moment before he returned his attention straight ahead to where one of his feet jiggled nervously on top of the other. “I don’t always have the perfect thing to say, Rose.” She had no response to that.

Packing, she thought. Concentrate on that. Clothes for stormy weather and for bright, clear days, possibly pollen storms and, she had to admit, more pairs of racy knickers than were reasonable or than she’d ever have occasion to wear. Still, she took pleasure in holding up each pair to carefully fold them, knowing he could see. She thought about asking him what he thought of this pair or that, teasing him, trying to rekindle that playful side of their strange relationship which had been absent recently, but she knew that any answer she might receive would more probably be along the lines of a lecture on the manufacture of silk on some asteroid or, worse, some cheeky question as to her running ability in a thong and an estimation as to the probability of her receiving a wedgie while doing so.

“Those are nice,” he said suddenly and softly from the bed behind her, taking her by surprise.

Rose’s head whipped around. “What?”

“The purple ones,” he explained, gesturing to the pants she still clutched in her hands. “They’re nice.”

How was she supposed to respond to _that_? It was possible that he was flirting, and it was equally possible that he was making an innocent remark about an item of her clothing. Seeing no other alternative, she simply said, “Thanks.” Then, feeling reckless, she added, “Maybe I’ll model them for you sometime.” She kept her eyes trained on her rucksack, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush on her cheeks.

“I’d like that,” the Doctor murmured, his voice low and throaty, almost a purr.

Rose felt like she’d come to the end of her rope. He flirted and teased, and that was all he would ever do, tossing her little morsels of hope as she fell more and more in love with him. “You can’t do that, it’s not fair,” she blurted out.

She heard the Doctor shift behind her. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t just ... you can’t _say_ things like that when you know you have no intention of ... it’s not fair,” she finished lamely. She felt like a child.

Standing to leave, she slung her pack over her shoulder. Cruel or not, she couldn’t sit in here with him any longer, couldn’t cope with his carefully worded innuendo and his oblivious reactions to being called on it. It had been their game for as long as she could remember, even back to when he’d been a different man, but the fun had quickly drained out of that particular game once she’d crossed the line and had found that, to him, a game was all it would ever be. Better to just avoid the subject altogether.

The Doctor bounced from the bed to his feet so quickly she jumped back a little from the figure suddenly standing before her, blocking the door. He looked flustered, sad, possibly even a little angry. And something else, an emotion she couldn’t remember ever having seen in his features, something that made his eyes dark and made his tongue dart out nervously to wet his lips before he spoke.

“Rose...” Again, he didn’t seem to have the words. If anyone had told her even a week ago that he could be at a loss for words for any reason she’d have thought them mad, but here he was.

“What, Doctor?” Her voice sounded tiny and unsure. Please, she thought, praying she was not about to receive another preemptive rejection. She let the rucksack strap slide down her arm before dropping it to the floor at their feet.

Again he moved fast enough to startle her. Her heart leapt in her chest when he leaned forward, then continued to race as the Doctor pressed his lips to hers. One arm encircled her waist, the other wound up around her neck, his fingers sliding into her hair, grabbing a handful and almost pulling in the most wonderful way. Her hands curled into the lapels of his suit jacket, not sure what had changed his mind and not caring as he nipped at her bottom lip, his nose bumping into hers as they awkwardly adjusted the angle of the kiss.

She couldn’t help but moan into his mouth when their tongues touched, thought she felt rather than heard him respond, a low rumble in his chest. The kiss became more frantic then, desperate, their mouths open and devouring, and all Rose could do was hold on and try to keep up. Her knees sagged and she melted against him. His desire poured into her with every wet motion of his mouth, his tongue, with every tug of his hand in her hair.

Flipping places, she found her back against the bedroom door, unsure whether she had moved them or let herself be moved. Quietly, so quietly in case her mum heard and wondered what they were up to, she reached behind her and turned the lock.

The click of it seemed almost comically loud, and the Doctor went suddenly still in her arms. _No_ , she thought, _oh no_. It was happening again, and this would be the moment when he ran away. He wasn’t pulling back, however, just broke the kiss and stayed close, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against hers.

It was on the tip of her tongue to apologise, or perhaps to beat him to it, disentangle herself and leave him alone in here as she’d meant to a few minutes before. His eyes were inches from hers, bottomless, unreadable – she couldn’t move from his almost hypnotic gaze, and she couldn’t stand the intensity of it.

So slowly that it took several seconds for her to register the movement, the Doctor slid the hand at her waist over the curve of her hip, then around to her bum, pulling her against him, at the same time nudging his hips forward into hers. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind now that he _could_ , most definitely he could, and without giving herself any time to reconsider the action Rose slid one hand between them, down to cup him where he was already so hard. His eyes fluttered closed as she stroked the length of him through his thin trousers.

He kissed her again, more frantically if that was possible, and began to step backwards, pulling her along. They collapsed onto the bed and Rose moved to straddle his hips, gasping as his erection pressed between her legs. He was propped up on his elbows, his kisses deep and wet, and Rose couldn’t stop herself from grinding against him. His resulting groan seemed deafening, and Rose quickly shushed him.

“Sorry,” he whispered before sealing his mouth over hers once more, a gentler exploration this time.

She didn’t think she’d ever wanted to shag anyone as badly as she wanted to shag the Doctor at that moment, but she couldn’t help thinking of her mother, one very thin door away. She knew the sensible thing to do would be to call a halt to this right now and drag the Doctor back to the TARDIS. But she was terrified that if she let him think about it, that if having sex with her was a conscious choice that he would have to make with a clear head, the Doctor would never let it happen.

His hand moved between her legs, first just a too-gentle brush of his knuckle, then his fingers pressing into the denim seam of her jeans as he shifted to suck on her neck, and she sighed and rocked into his hand, encouraging him to touch her in just the right place. His cock was hard against the inside of her thigh, his fingers rubbing her clit through the thick fabric, and it was an easy decision, really. If this was her opportunity to share this with him, she would leap at it even if her mum was only a short distance away, even if it would have to be fast and quiet and there would be none of the slow, savouring of every moment that she’d always imagined. She would not waste this chance.

“Trousers,” Rose whispered. He hummed a questioning noise against her throat. “Take them off. Quick.” Silently lamenting having to move, she scrabbled backwards and stood up to do the same, hastily tugging at the laces of her shoes before pushing them off with her jeans while the Doctor fumbled with his trouser clasp and zip. It seemed that she could suddenly hear every subtle noise from the other room: the crackle of dialogue on the television, the motion of her mum rising and moving to the kitchen for a beverage, and she wondered if the sound from here in her old room was just as audible out there. She wished, shimmying out of her knickers, that she could remember if her old bed squeaked. The Doctor sat up, pushing his trousers down to his ankles and bending forward to begin removing his trainers, and she rushed forward, climbing back onto the bed, straddling his legs and pushing him back down – it was better if he left them on, anyway.

“Rose,” he gasped as she positioned herself over him, reaching down and grasping his erection, and again she hissed at him to be quiet. This was never going to work if he was a talker, yet she found herself desperately aroused at the thought that he almost certainly would be.

She hesitated. “Is this...” she said as quietly as possible, more mouthing the words than actually speaking them. “Do you...?” He nodded quickly as though he understood her question, and that was enough. Still holding him, she sank down and guided the Doctor inside of her.

The Doctor bit his bottom lip, his eyes clenching shut as he stifled a groan. The whole thing felt inevitable and impossible all at once, and Rose was fleetingly aware that the words _‘he’s inside me’_ were repeating on a loop inside her own head, as if she were trying to convince herself that what was happening was real. The Doctor was still wearing his suit jacket, his tie in its usual loose knot around his neck, and Rose glanced down at where their bodies were joined as if she needed the visual evidence when the feel of him was so amazing. The bottom of the Doctor’s shirt tail was caught between them and Rose grabbed it and pushed it up and out of the way, exposing his abdomen to her greedy eyes.

Their hips undulated together in a perfect rhythm. Rose closed her eyes against the pleasure of it, still clutching his shirt in her fist for leverage as she rode him. She wouldn’t have cared if she didn’t have an orgasm but she was going to, oh god she was going to because it was the Doctor and he was fucking her and it was hard to fathom that what she’d wanted for so long was hers. He was hers.

Long fingers threaded into her hair again and he pulled her down, his hand cupping the back of her skull. Rose thought he just wanted to change the angle of her body with his, but then she felt the Doctor’s lips against the shell of her ear and she realised that he wanted to talk to her.

“You feel amazing,” he breathed, his hand tightening briefly on the back of her head, his other hand resting at her bare hip, guiding her on top of him.

“Yeah, you too,” she replied quietly, sitting back and smiling down at him. He opened his eyes, then, grinning that crooked grin of his back up at her – in that instant, they were the Doctor and Rose again and nothing had changed since that ill-fated kiss, except for everything which so brilliantly had, except for the sweat on his brow, the half-lidded pleasure behind his eyes and the way he filled her so well.

“Wanted this,” he panted, still smiling and looking up at her almost serenely, his hips rising to meet her as she rode him. His hand reached down, his fingers entwining with hers. It was the best thing he could have said, the one thing she needed to hear – that he had thought about this, dreamed of it maybe as much as she had. When she quickened her movements his eyes fell closed again, his mouth open, his breathing heavy and just this side of moaning. Rose toyed with the idea of putting her hand over his mouth, realised she was going to come soon, hard, and that she’d almost certainly cry out herself if she didn’t do something, and she bent and covered his mouth with hers instead.

When her orgasm crested over a moment later, Rose heard her own muffled cry, barely suppressed by the messy kiss they were sharing. She didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop kissing him because she knew he was close. He might be an ancient alien but the signs were universal. The Doctor wrenched his mouth from hers suddenly and threw his head back, the cords in his neck standing out with exertion. He came a moment later, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and Rose felt his teeth pressing against the flesh of her shoulder through her top as he groaned with relief.

There wasn’t time but she couldn’t resist a brief pause to enjoy the afterglow – the feel of him getting softer inside her and of the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck under her fingers. At the same time, as she lay on top of him and listened to their slowing breathing, Rose’s stomach began to flutter nervously as she wondered where they would go from here. She felt awkward and exposed as she climbed off of him, all the sensory inputs of the sex they’d just shared suddenly terribly intimate and strange. She didn’t meet the Doctor’s eyes.

They dressed quickly and quietly, Rose simultaneously trying to interpret any shift in the sounds from the other room which would indicate her mother had heard them, and trying to come up with something to say which would adequately express both how elated and how confused she was by this situation. She sat next to him on the bed to tie her shoes, paused mid-lace. “Doctor,” she started, staring straight ahead.

“I know,” he interrupted softly.

“You said...”

“I _know_.”

That old, panicky feeling threatened to overtake her again, but she tamped it down. Things were different now, and she wasn’t going to tiptoe around the subject any longer, not with the memory of his kisses still burning against her lips and the ache of good, energetic sex between her legs. “Are things gonna be weird now?” He turned toward her at that, and when she faced him she was surprised to see he looked almost amused.

“You ran away from home,” he started, “to travel with an alien over 47 times older than you in his space ship shaped like a phone box, and you’re worried that sex is going to make things weird.” The tone of his voice was both adoring and pitying, as though he were in love with just how silly she really was.

“Might do,” she replied, biting her lip. Gently, he brought his hand to the side of her face and leaned over to barely brush his lips on hers again – a chaste kiss, but one still full of promise – then he stood.

“We’ll be fine, Rose. We always are,” he continued, his voice louder and back to its normal cheerfulness. Turning to leave the room, he paused once more and bent to retrieve her fallen rucksack. Spinning on his heel, he raised one eyebrow as he offered it to her. “Make sure you packed those purple knickers,” he purred in that low voice of his which always turned her knees to jelly and, once she’d accepted the pack, gave her a cheeky wink and a grin before leaving the room.


End file.
